The in-between

I watch her turn the pages
she’s so engrossed, it prompts
me to pick a novel at random.
I polish my glasses. Once
I could read unaided. I used
to be drawn into so many books
from their first sentence
becoming oblivious to time
and surroundings –

The dingiest house, ratty nets, 40 watt bulbs
without shades that’s where Jack lived.

But no longer. I glance up
she reads greedily.
I remember that feeling
eager for an outcome
but not wanting the story
to end. I flick to the back
of my choice

It was Eileen.

That’s abrupt. Have I the patience
for all the fiction that lies in between?